


i’m just burning out

by paxamdays



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (a bit), Age Difference, Angst, Drug Use, Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Patrick’s really giddy and cute, Pete’s a sad boy with drugs, the author has very minimal knowledge in regards to marijuana and she is sorry because of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-19 10:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15507669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxamdays/pseuds/paxamdays
Summary: Pete’s kind of depressed and in need of a dealer, Patrick’s kind of a hyperactive mess who talks too fast and too much. Obviously, it’s a match made in heaven.





	i’m just burning out

**Author's Note:**

> i honestly thought that this was a good idea for some unknown reason at some point. it really isn’t. 
> 
> title taken from green day’s burnout cos I love that song to death and it feels kind of fitting (I also couldn’t think of anything else lmao)
> 
> this story contains frequent mentions of drugs but my knowledge on weed is piss poor so there’s that. fun fact: I am australian, so apparently according to this story I assume that all of the weed in america just comes from california lol
> 
> also there’s an age gap between patrick and pete and patrick’s not underage or anything but he’s still a teenager (17) and pete’s 22 so idk if that makes you feel uncomfortable just a heads up.
> 
> anyway, enjoy the byproduct of my tired self thinking I could write lol

Of course, of all the times humanly possible for Pete’s dealer to be arrested for cocaine possession, it’d be now. Of course it’d be while he was in the middle of smoking his last joint. Of fucking course.

Pete doesn’t really expect it; generally, this sort of thing doesn’t just _happen_ (having a dealer isn’t exactly a common occurrence either, but that’s not important). But considering that fate is a nasty bitch who likes to see him suffer, coupled with the fact that he has the worst luck, Pete shouldn’t be all that surprised because this was bound to happen eventually. 

It’s on a Tuesday night.

Eleven-something, house tinged grey with a smoke filter. His phone buzzes; a text (from the one and only Gabe Saporta) that only consists of a few, eloquently spoken words.

_dumbfuck travie got aressted for cocaine possession_

Followed by the most appropriate emoticon: _> :\_

Pete groans and sinks into his couch. This is just what he needs.

The worst part is, he lives in residential Chicago — fucking _Chicago_ — and he doesn’t know where the hell he’s going to find another dealer. It’s times like these that he wishes he was in, like, California or something, somewhere where’d it’d be way easier to find someone else. But he isn’t in California, he isn’t in the land of beaches and sand and an infinite supply of drugs. He’s in Chicago, land of wind and pizza, and it fucking sucks.

He smokes the joint down until there’s barely anything left and calls Joe.

Joe is a bit of an enigma. He’s Pete’s (in his own words, not Pete’s) ‘weed-saurus’, which is apparently a portmanteau of ‘weed’ and ‘thesaurus’ (although, it could be ‘tyrannosaurus’, because Joe’s Joe, and he’s pretty fucking weird and _fuck off, Wentz, T-Rexes are **cool.**_ ) Logically, it’d make more sense if he referred to himself as a ‘weed-encyclopaedia’, because he’s got a concerning (boarding on unhealthy) amount of knowledge in association to marijuana and drugs and all-round dumb fuckery. But Pete has to admit, ‘weed-encyclopaedia’ doesn’t quite roll off the tongue like ‘weed-saurus’ does.

He scrolls down his contacts list and presses on the phone icon next to Joe’s name. There’s a couple of rings, before a groggy voice emits from the other end.

 _“Hello?”_ It’s unmistakably Joe. Although, it comes out more as a hullo, heavy with sleep and annoyance _. “Who is this? Do you know what fucking time it is? It’s two in the fucking afternoon, let me sleep.”_

“Joe.” Pete hates how desperate he sounds, god, he hates how his life has gotten to the point where he needs weed just to function and get by on a day to day basis. “Joe. Travie. Fucking Travie. He got arrested.”

He hears the sound of bed springs shifting.  _“What?”_

“He got arrested”, Pete says again, slowly, “Last night. Cocaine possession. Gabe texted me.”

Joe sighs and mumbles, _“That’s a fucking drag. But— okay, so yeah, that sucks, but was it really worth waking me up over—”_

“I need a new dealer”, Pete blurts out suddenly. There’s a pause, and Joe is silent. Pete takes that as an indication to continue. “I–I need you to give me, like, a number or something. Please, Joe.”

Joe doesn’t say anything for a moment. Pete holds his phone even tighter.

_“Do you just, like, assume that I, as your certified weed-saurus—”_

“I'm not calling you that.”

_“—just have this magical list of pot dealers in residential Chicago?”_

He feigns hurt. _“Do you really think that lowly of me, Peter? I am crushed. Truly, truly crushed.”_

Pete snaps, “Look, you little fucker, I’m calling you because I know that the only thing you know for certain in your sad and pathetic little life is weed and where to get it from, and I am _not_ in the fucking mood for your bullshit.”

Joe laughs quietly into the phone. _“ **I’ve** got a sad and pathetic life? You’re the one with drug issues and connections with a damn high schooler.”_

“Don't fuck around with me, Trohman”, Pete spits. “We’re both losers, I get it, we’ll leave it at that. Just...just give me a number. Any number. Please.”

_“Only ‘cos you said ‘please’, and you know I'm a sucker for formalities.”_

“Fuck off.”

•

He calls the number that afternoon and talks with the guy — his new ‘dealer’, or whatever — for about eight minutes. He actually tries to hang up _three_ times, but the guy is extremely chipper and happy for some ungodly reason, never stops talking, and Pete doesn't know why he wants them to meet on the campus at DePaul, but fuck it, whatever. He's getting pills and weed one way or another, so they could meet on the goddamn moon for all he cares

Campus security apparently doesn't exist here — Pete shouldn't be surprised, things obviously haven't changed much since he dropped out two years ago — so he gets into the quad easily without anyone asking who he is (again, he shouldn't be surprised, considering he's twenty two but still looks like a teenager). It's mostly empty, people are probably in class, so no one’s going to see him take the drugs, which feels a bit reassuring (Pete had tried to convince the guy, who's name is Patrick or something, that it probably wouldn't be the best of ideas to do this in plain sight, but he wouldn't take no for an answer). He sits on a bench for about five minutes, scrolling through Instagram feed, before a pair of beaten white Converses covered in tacky drawings stops in front of him.

Pete looks up and almost has a heart attack.

When Joe had told him that this guy was young, he assumed he'd be, like, his age or something, considering that his last dealer was nearly thirty. Joe had even said that the guy was _older_ than himself — but shit, that's obviously not saying much, because Joe is a highschooler and this fucker looks at _least_ fifteen.

And he’s dressed like he is, too. The Converse are one thing, but the ripped jeans, Aladdin Sane shirt (Pete won’t lie, the kid has good taste in music), and the denim jacket with at least forty fucking patches of band logos badly sewn on it make him look like the epitome of an edgy teenager. And Christ — he's wearing a beanie. A grey, goddamn beanie. It's thirty degrees, he's wearing a denim jacket, and a beanie.

Pete swallows thickly. “Are you Patrick?”

_Please say no, please say no._

“Yup.” He pops the p, because why the hell not. “It’s Pete, right?”

“I, uh. Y-Yeah.”

The kid grins and pulls two little plastic baggies — one filled with weed, the other with tablets — out from that fucking stupid jacket of his. Pete takes the bags and hastily shoves them into his pocket.

“Thanks. That's, um, twenty for the weed, thirty for the pills?”

Patrick nods, smiling. Pete smiles back, albeit hesitantly and strained.

“So, uh, you go here?” he says, pulling a fifty out of his pocket and dropping it in Patrick’s open palm. Patrick shakes his head, but the smile seems to grow wider, if that were even possible.

“Nah, I go to Glenbrook South. But I'm coming here after I finish school, so I figured I'd check this place out and see you at the same time. I'm actually meeting a friend when he finishes his class, which is in about twenty minutes. He's a music major, and he's really good. He's got a Soundcloud, you should check it out.”

He giggles, oh good fucking lord, _why_ did he have to giggle. “He's actually the reason why I decided to check this place out today and meet up with you and all. Isn't it crazy, being able to do a bunch of stuff all at once? God, it's great.”

He doesn’t take in any breathes when he’s speaking, instead opting to say his words as fast as humanly possible. Pete kind of hates and loves the fact that he's so talkative; hates it because, shit, calm the hell down kid, shut up before you pass out. But he loves it because it's cute how jovial and perky he is. His cheeks are flushed red, a contrast to his skin which is like marble covered in honey freckles. He pulls up his beanie a bit and scratches his messy, mousy brown hair. Pete smiles, leaning on the side of genuinity.

“That's— that's cool, I guess.” He rubs the side of his face, looks down. The toe cap of Patrick’s left Converse says _Travis, I'm pregnant,_ and Pete lets a sort-of-but-not-quite-a-laugh slip out of his mouth at the fact that this kid likes Bowie _and_ Blink-182, and that actually is pretty cool. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. I graduate this year. I'm a senior.”

Pete furrows his eyebrows. “Joe’s a senior. He said you're older than him.”

“Only by a few months.”

“Oh.” Fuck, _why_ does this feel awkward. “A-Alright.”

“What about you?” Patrick’s pupils might as well be stars. His lips are pink and plump and look kind of soft and _no, Pete, that's weird, he may be legal, but it's still fucking weird, stop thinking about this._ He's got a scar on his left eyebrow, something which Pete hadn’t noticed before and _definitely_ can't get his eyes off now. “You go to school? Or you got a job?”

No, Pete does not, in fact, go to school. Political science was too hard, that semester of law was too hard, everything was too hard and it's all fucking awful. He works a shitty job at Target, smokes marijuana and takes a numerous amount of pills and medication because it’s better than actually feeling anything, he writes dumb poetry, he sometimes plays in an equally dumb band, he eats a lot of cereal, he sleeps. The concept of school, let alone him going there and making something out of his life, is laughable.

“I, uh, I work at Target.” That's all Pete says. 

Patrick’s eyes light up. “Really? That's so cool. Do you work in, like, the entertainment section? ‘Cos there's this Green Day CD I wanna get — I know, 2018, who even uses CDs anymore — and I heard that they're stocking Nimrod, and I know that that album came out, like, twenty years ago, but I've never been able to find it. I don't even know why Target would stock it ‘cos they only ever really sell Kidz Bop and shit on the top forties, but dude, who cares, right? It's Green Day! They're sick, man. Fucking sick.”

Patrick (miraculously) doesn't suffocate from the lack of air intake. Pete stares at him, stunned, almost impressed that he managed to say it all in one take without dying.

“I don't— I don’t know, kid.” The fact that he stutters it out is comical in comparison to Patrick’s monologue about fucking CDs and Green Day. “I work more in retail, like, clothes and shit. But I'll, uh. I'll ask for you.”

And suddenly, Patrick is squealing and he's leaning in and _fuck,_ his arms are wrapped around Pete’s body. Pete stiffens, evaporating under Patrick’s grip, the hug seemingly crushing his organs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're so fucking cool.”

He squeezes him and lets go. Pete, taken aback, stares at the kid, who is grinning like a dumbass and practically shaking.

“I've gotta— I’ve gotta go”, he mumbles. Patrick frowns, but only for a split second.

“Oh, okay. Well, see ya later, dude.” And he spins on his heel, and walks away.

Pete just stands there, and he kind of wants to die and catch up to him at the same time.

•

Pete tells himself numerous times that he has to get a new dealer — preferably, one that doesn't speak to him about anything other than drugs and goes off into random tangents about stupid and irrelevant things, one that doesn't hug him, and definitely (most importantly) one that isn't a cute teenager with a shitty fashion sense and a great taste in music.

_Firstly, Bowie, Blink, and Green Day, yes please. Secondly— you didn't just call him ‘cute’, did you?_

Two things happen — Pete doesn't linger on the fact that he just thought of a high schooler as ‘cute’ _(this is weird, stop, you're a grown ass man, **stop—** )_ and he doesn't get around to looking for a new dealer.

•

When he wakes up after a fun night of heavily drinking his sadness away and crying whilst wrapped in a blanket in his bathtub, there's notification of a text from three minutes ago. And fuck, great, it's Patrick. Of course it would be. He groans and rolls over and picks up his phone.

_Hey dude I can do ya for 3g for $30_

Pete’s fingers are slow to type out the response, his retinas slowly disintegrating from the harsh light of his phone.

_**Sure. Text me time and address.** _

_Okie dokie gimme a sec_

Ellipsis. That's all Pete sees. Three, continuously moving little dots that he wishes would explode. He gets a reply.

_Wait hang on my girlfriend texted me. brb famsquad_

Pete cringes and leans back in the bathtub. The phone buzzes again after maybe ten minutes.

_oh my fucking god_

He stares at his phone, a little bit confused, a little bit concerned, because he's not sure if this is an ‘oh my fucking god’ meaning, _wow, something really wild just happened ahaha,_ or ‘oh my fucking god’ in the sense of, _wow, something really bad just happened send help._ He’s hesitant.

_**You okay man** _

_**?** _

Ellipsis. Fading in and out, again and again and again—

_yeah_

_yeah I am. just_

_just come around whenever. I'm at joe’s place. you know where that is_

_?_

_**yeh** _

_coolio_

•

Pete shows up at around two in the morning. Joe’s the one who answers the door, a frown and a grim expression on his face.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

Pete stares at him, deadpanned. “Patrick texted me, dumbass. Where’re your parents?”

“Wedding out in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere.” Joe shrugs. “I don't know. Somewhere in Indiana.”

“Okay. That's a whole state, but okay.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Whatever. He's down in the basement. Just...tread lightly, dude.”

Pete bites the inside of his cheek. “Why? What's going on?”

“I don't— look, just do it, okay? Just be decent.”

“I'm always decent. I’m a fucking delight.”

Joe scoffs and walks down to the basement. Pete shuts the door and follows.

When he's walking down the stairs, he can hear muffled and quiet sobs, soft sniffles and little hiccups. Pete goes rigid at the thought of Patrick crying. He can't be. He's so bubbly and optimistic, adorable in a naive and innocent kind of way, and thinking about the very concept of him crying hurts his chest. Pete prays that he's wrong and silently hopes he's okay.

He's not; the first thing Pete sees when his gaze drops on Patrick are scarlet and glazed over eyes. Pupils dilated, heavy and dark. His face is red, yet not flushed like it had been a few days prior; deep, scarlet blotches cover his puffy cheeks, tear stained and freckles practically non-existent under a crimson hue. His lips are pink and covered in an obscene amount of saliva and tears. Patrick’s beanie is on the couch cushion next to him, revealing dishevelled brown hair that sticks out in all of the wrong places. He wipes a jumper sleeve-covered hand across his face.

Pete stares at him, heart cracking. Joe sighs.

“His girlfriend just broke up with him. He's not taking it very well.”

“I can see that”, Pete say breathlessly.

Patrick looks up. It’s almost funny, how pretty he looks under the dim light of the dark basement. Even now, with tears and hair glued to his skin, he is still the picturesque epitome of beauty, like an ethereal, otherworldly being. He blinks, and his lips move quickly to form words not yet on his tongue.

“Oh h-hi, Pete.” His voice is cracked around the edges, slightly high pitched, like he’s trying too hard not to sound sad. “I— I’ve got the weed, you can have it—”

He hiccups and another sob rings out through Pete’s ears, who grimaces.

“Joe, uh, Joe told me about your...your girlfriend.”

Patrick frowns, then laughs awkwardly and scratches the back of his head. “Oh. Yeah, she— yeah. Whatever, man. It’s nothing. It’s fine.”

It’s not, which is evident by the glassy look in Patrick’s eyes, the curled fingers and nails digging into his palms. He exhales shakily and smiles; strained and obviously hurt. Pete can’t believe he’s actually go to do this, but he can’t just...he can’t just leave him like this.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Patrick stares, silent, unmoving. Then he nods slowly and moves over on the couch.

Pete turns to Joe, who shrugs and says, “All yours, dude. I’ve already spent an hour with him crying on my shoulder over that dumb bitch.”

He walks off, leaving Pete to promptly walk down the basement stairs and sit on the battered couch next to Patrick.

•

He listens to him vent about the breakup for a while, and Patrick never once says anything bad or remotely negative about her. He talks about how they met _(“Ms Ainsley’s science class, first day of freshman year. She was wearing an Unknown Pleasures shirt, and her hair was in a bun.”),_ what their relationship was like _(“It— it had happened before. She had done it to me a few times before. But she always said sorry, and I always forgave her.”),_ how he is still going to have to see her in two of his classes and it makes him feel sick to even think about it, because he misses her so damn much.

The reason why they broke up makes Pete’s blood burn and his skin go numb. Apparently, she’d cheated on him _(“More than once. I’m really fucking dumb, aren’t I?”),_ and Patrick always knew it but didn’t want her to leave. And the bitch told him she’d been seeing another guy for about three months and she didn’t want to, quote on quote, ‘live a lie anymore’. So she broke up with him, and Patrick showed up at Joe’s door crying at around one in the morning.

Pete rubs his arm lightly. He’s got the kid leaning on him, head on his shoulder and hair brushing up against his neck. Patrick hiccups and sighs.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I care so much. I-I think the worst part is— is that I _knew_ she was cheating on me. But I just let it happen. And I always told her that it was fine, everyone makes mistakes. But it’s just, you know. Those mistakes don’t usually occur on and off throughout an entire relationship, and then continuously over the course of _three months._ ”

He takes a drag from the blunt — an addition which Pete had lit about half an hour ago to calm him down a bit — and exhales a small grey cloud, passes the half-burnt blunt to Pete, who takes it gingerly in his limp fingers and smokes slowly.

“I wish it didn’t hurt so much. I–I just want to forget about her. But you can’t— you can’t erase memories and feelings and everything about a person who’s you’ve been with for nearly a quarter of your life.”

Pete doesn't really know how to respond to that, so he settles with a dumb, hushed and cliche, “There's plenty of fish in the sea.”

Patrick scoffs. “Maybe I'm just in the wrong sea, then.”

He groans, and Pete stiffens at the feel of his body getting closer because holy _fuck,_ Patrick’s hand is on his thigh, rubbing small circles on his jeans. His breathing hitches, vision blurry.

“Maybe I should just stick to boys.” He sounds bitter; morose. “Boys don't bitch about every little thing and make you feel inadequate. Boys don't fuck around behind your back. Boys don't take up four years of your damn life just to dump you at one a.m. over a phone call.”

He swallows thickly. “Boys don't break your heart.”

Patrick pulls the blunt up to his lips — those rosy, exquisite and soul-crushing lips — and sucks lightly on the paper. Pete watches, waits, holds in a breath. When he exhales, Patrick does too, and he tries not to collapse from the dizzying sensation and the smoke in the air.

“I wish.” Patrick leans forward, and Pete almost whines from the sudden lack of warmth on his body, and places the blunt in an ashtray on the table. “I wish that things could be—”

He drops back onto the couch and crosses his arms. “Simpler. And different. And not as shitty.”

Pete doesn’t look away.

He’s seriously at the point in his life where he should be getting his shit together and whatnot, because he’s already 22 and he isn’t going to uni, he lives in a shitty apartment above a bar in downtown Chicago, and his income comes solely from working shifts at Target and sometimes receiving 40 bucks from his mum whenever she feels generous. And he honestly never really thought that this would be one of the highlights of his mostly mundane twenty-two years on this earth; finding himself somewhat infatuated with an enthusiastic and lively kid who sells weed, has starry eyes, and goes to fucking Glenbrook.

It could be sad to say that this might just be the pinnacle of his existence. Pete shouldn’t care.

He shouldn't.

So he doesn't.

He doesn't think or let anything else into his mind when Patrick turns his head and he presses his lips against rosy, exquisite, soul-crushing ones.

It's all one big, dumb cliche, it really is — a scene from a book, an epiphany of sorts, fireworks and explosions and car crashes. Everything is red and pink, and Pete feels the grey within his body evaporate as Patrick, everything about him, seeps into his skin. His lips are warm, so stupidly warm, and they're a bit cracked, and Pete swears that he can feel a bit of tongue push its way into his mouth, which leaves behind a really weird, yet endearing feeling. Eyelashes dance from closed eyes, fingers ghosting along Patrick’s forearm and his other hand cupping the left side of his face. He presses his thumb down into Patrick’s cheek.

He tastes like stale smoke and sleep, like chocolate and happiness. He savours it, the fizzing sensation in his mouth, the little wildfires burning on his tongue. Pete fists a hand in his shirt, drags him onto his lap, Patrick’s legs draped on either side of his body. Pete’s hand finds its way to the back of his neck; Patrick pulls away.

“Woah”, he says. Breathless, panting. “Holy shit.”

Pete offers back a quiet, “Jesus Christ.”

Something tugs shyly at his lips as he kisses Patrick’s neck and mumbles into the marble skin, “Ok. So that happened.”

Patrick blinks slowly, eyes red rimmed and glossy from the blunt (it's still burning in the ashtray, fire eating away steadily at the paper). He laughs softly, and the haze of the basement makes him look so damn pretty.

“It did. It— oh my god, holy _shit_.”

He leans back in and takes Pete into his hands until he melts.

•

The show is, to be say the least, absolutely terrible. Pete can't sing for shit, sound tech is basically non-existent, and the drummer looks perpetually pissed off and like he’s about to throw his snare at the next dumbass who stumbles up onto the stage (drunk, of course) and starts fucking around with his kit.

He loves every single golden moment of it.

After the band finishes up their set, Pete sits on the edge of the stage, legs swinging like a five year old, as the kids in the audience pile outside the venue (either to receive autographs from the other members, or to escape this god-awful shitfest of a show). He looks down at his phone, trying to beat some animated villain in a boring and repetitive game, when a pair of beaten white Converses covered in tacky drawings (complete with crudely drawn love hearts and smiley faces, song lyrics, and _Travis, I’m pregnant_ on the toe cap of the left one) stop in front of him. Patrick makes a small ahem noise, and Pete smiles before he looks up.

“You like the show?” he says. Patrick’s cheeks are pushed up, making his eyes look semi-closed. He laughs, tugs at the sleeves of his leather jacket.

“Oh, it was great, Mr Rockstar. You have the voice of an angel.”

Pete snorts rather unattractively at that. “An angel who's a little stoned and has a hangover.”

Patrick frowns slightly, something flashing in his eyes. He pushes Pete back a bit onto the stage and straddles his hips, leaning in to place a small kiss on his lips.

“An angel”, he says again, dead  serious. “Who’s boyfriend totally loves and cares about him more than anything.”

From the corner of his eye, Pete can see his band’s drummer _(goddamnit, Hurley, we are having a moment, do you fucking mind)_ walk back into the room, probably to get his sticks. He hears him scoff and say, “Ugh, stop being so in love and get a room, you horny assholes.”

Pete rolls his eyes and raises his hand in the air, gesturing a finger towards the drummer, who does the same and walks back out the door, yelling, “Use protection and don't fuck anywhere near my kit.”

Patrick smiles. “Maybe we should take that as a challenge.”

His breath smells like mint toothpaste and White Widow. Pete relishes in the warmth he feels from Patrick’s steady exhales clinging to his skin. He buries his face into his neck and sighs.

“Not tonight. I'm kind of tired and I don't really want Andy to kick my ass if he finds cum stains on his hi-hat.”

Patrick makes a face and shakes his head. “Ew. Gross.”

“You've got morning classes tomorrow anyway, _college boy_.”

“Don't say it like that. It makes this relationship feel creepier than it already is.”

“Nothing creepy”, Pete mumbles. “About me being so madly, _desperately,_ head-over-heels, can't-sleep-eat-function-properly-without-you-right-next-to-me in love with you.”

Patrick giggles and places a kiss atop his head. “You fucking dork. I love you too.”

The words sound better with each and every time he says it.


End file.
